


There Are No Ghosts Here

by puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Historical, M/M, Series, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I don't want him to forgive me. I never wanted that.</em> The shape of what America wants, before the revolution and after it, and whether or not it changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Ghosts Here

  
**December 15, 1773**

"Seven _thousand_?" America echoes, hopes Mr. Adams doesn't hear how badly his voice cracked on the _thousand._ Even if Mr. Adams did, though, he doesn't say anything about it, just offers his hand to America and helps hoist him out of the carriage. He can get out of carriages all right on his own now, he wants to protest, but maybe Mr. Adams is just being nice, and since Mr. Adams is letting America stay at his house—_my son Samuel's old room should do for you,_ he said—America should be polite right back.

"And two thousand of them from out-of-town." Mr. Adams smiles. "The inns of Boston haven't a single vacancy tonight."

"Is tomorrow that important?" he asks as the carriage rattles down Purchase Street. Mr. Adams holds the door open for him and America steps inside, shivers a little because the slatted wooden walls aren't very good at keeping the wind out and the cold creeps in through the chinks in the mortar. Or mud. England always looks so appalled when America tells him what he uses to build his houses with, but it's hard to build in stone, especially the white and weathered gray stones England likes so much, and he has to import so much of it and importing's—importing's interesting now—but you have to save that for the best places, the ones you want to be special. He shucks his boots and sets them by the fireplace, because if the meeting tomorrow's going to be a long one he doesn't want to spend it with wet feet.

"Tomorrow is our chance to address the tyranny we are faced with," Mr. Adams says. "If we do not, England will heap more injustices upon you."

America scuffs his stocking against the floorboards; they send cold shocks through his toes. He forgot how drafty Boston is, especially in the winter, how everything smells of salt and how the sea-winds blow all the time. "I don't know if they're injustices…" It isn't _right_ that England tries to tell him what to buy and makes him pay more for things without even asking America about it first, but he hasn't been _mean_ yet, just—

—disappointed. Like America's throwing a temper tantrum or _behaving like a little heathen_, that's one of England's favorite phrases. And a heathen's someone who—he can't remember exactly, he just remembers overhearing England talking to some of the churchmen about saving the poor heathens but America isn't sure what he has to be saved from.

"He forces his tea on you and cripples your ability to trade, makes you dependent on him." Mr. Adams clasps him about the shoulders. "Look at you, America, you've grown so since we first met."

"I've had to have my hems let out twice this year," he says. It isn't really like bragging, but he remembers the look on England's face when he sailed back to see America and America stood taller than he did. If England spent less time at his desk and more time out in the fields, he might grow taller, too, or so America thinks.

"And he cannot treat with you as though you were a naughty child. You see that, don't you?"

***

**July 5, 1777**

"What do you _mean_ we're falling back?"

America slams his fists on General St. Clair's desk, but St. Clair doesn't jump or even flinch, just polishes his sword and gives America one of the _must-you-really_ glances England liked so much. "Ticonderoga isn't defensible," he says.

"It's not defensible?" America shoots back. "We have the high ground—"

"We lost it," St. Clair says. "They've placed guns on Sugar Loaf, and our cannon cannot reach them."

He remembers waking up to that, waking up to that the night after his men toasted to his independence and gave him extra rations of brandy to celebrate and staring down the barrels of the cannons mounted on his hill, his land, shuddered when the shells sailed towards the fort. "You said we didn't need to defend Sugar Loaf," he tells St. Clair, and he doesn't point his finger at the general but it's the same kind of sentiment.

"I did."

_So you were wrong_, America thinks, but St. Clair doesn't say that. "But we still have the batteries and the stockades and the block houses Baldwin put in," he says, "we have everything Kosciuszko did to Mount Independence—"

"And none of it will deter Burgoyne."

"You can't know that until we've tried." America's nose is inches away from St. Clair's now and St. Clair still won't budge, but damned if America's going to do it first, damned if he's going to let Burgoyne wrench this victory, his first victory, his first real victory, away from him. These cannons bombarded Gage out of Boston and these walls staved off invasion from the north and they'll hold this time, too, they just need the chance.

St. Clair sets his saber down; the blade rattles. "Tried, yes, and lost how many lives in the process? Wasted how many of _your_ men, America?"

"We'll defend the fort," America says, "we'll stop Burgoyne here."

"The fort faces south."

"So?"

"The British are attacking from the north, America," says St. Clair.

"Then they won't be able to reach our gates, and we'll pick them off if they try to sneak around to the front."

"How? Our artillery faces the wrong direction." St. Clair rises, sheathes his saber, turns his back to America—is he allowed to do that?—and stares at the forest below. "Ticonderoga was built to resist French incursion," he says. "This is quite different."

"I know it's different." America crosses his arms, picks at the loose threads hanging from his vest, snaps them off and twists them between his fingers. Twists and rolls, twists and rolls. He wedges the ball of thread under his thumbnail and says, "I'm not stupid."

"I never implied that."

"Yes you did," America snaps. _You and everyone else—we'll handle this America, be quiet America, that isn't what America wants, how dare you claim to speak for America sir, America would be ashamed, America would be proud._ If they asked him, if they just asked him, he could set them straight.

"You understand," St. Clair says, "surely you understand; these troops are needed at Saratoga, not here—"

America tips his chair back on two legs like England told him never to do, _you'll fall and break your neck_. "You're a coward."

The sun breaks through the window and scatters over the shine on St. Clair's boots. America squints, sinks lower in the chair and squirms out of the light, the heat's all right in the shade but when the sun glares in his face like this it's unbearable, it hurts, there's too much all at once and he can't stand it.

St. Clair says, "I must do what I think best for my country."

America slams the legs of his chair back on the floor and the floorboards creak and splinter, _mind your strength America,_ well he _is_ and he knows exactly what he's doing and he slams the door behind him on purpose, slams it hard enough to make the walls rattle the way his teeth are shaking.

***

**December 15, 1773**

"What if the Custom-house doesn't give Mr. Rotch permission to sail?" America asks. He's put on his shift and slippers; his arms stick out at least two inches past the sleeves now, that's an inch more than they did last month. The sleeves are starting to strangle his arms, though, so he really ought to get a new shift soon. France says that England doesn't understand about things like clothes allowances, and America thinks he might be right.

"We shall not suffer the tea to be landed," Mr. Adams says.

"I know _that_."

"If Mr. Rotch cannot leave our harbor with his cargo on board, then we shall divest him of it." It might be the flickering of the candlelight, but America thinks he sees a smile flit over Mr. Adams's face. The shadows on the wall twist and stretch—America shivers and tries not to press too closely to Mr. Adams. He'll want to share his bed with his wife, and America guesses they won't want him to bed down with them. It's all right. He's in Mr. Adams's house, in Boston, and he has a very important meeting to attend tomorrow and he'll be all right, won't he?

Samuel's room hasn't much in it, only the bed, a chair and nightstand, a rocking-horse tipped on its side, and a small hearth. America scoots to the last, holds his hand over the coals and wriggles his fingers and waits for the feeling to flow back into them. The coals still don't give off much light, though, and the windows are shuttered against the cold and some starlight seeps through the slats, but not very much. America's teeth chatter a few times, but he remembers his manners. "Thank you," he says.

"You're most welcome. Elizabeth made up a bedpan for you; that ought to keep your feet warm."

"It will." America drags himself away from the hearth and burrows under the covers; his feet touch the board at the base when he extends his legs all the way, so he bends his knees, curls up on his side. It's a nice enough bed and the quilt and the pillows aren't as soft as England's, but he likes how the quilt scratches his cheek when he nuzzles it. It's a nice enough bed, but it's too small for him and not big enough for anyone else to climb in. "May I have a candle next to the bed?" he asks.

"Of course. Do take care not to tip it."

"I won't," America promises, and Mr. Adams sets the candlestick on the nightstand, kisses him on the forehead. America squirms, wants to protest that even England's stopped giving him forehead kisses before bedtime, but Mr. Adams pulls away before he can and tucks the covers under America's chin and America would protest that, too, except a cold draft blows across the room and America buries himself even deeper in his blankets.

"Will there really be seven thousand people at the meeting tomorrow?" he asks; the covers muffle his voice, and Mr. Adams laughs.

"Oh yes. And we shall make Hutchinson mind us."

Hutchinson and his letters—_abridgment of what are called English liberties_—America wads the covers in his fists. "He'd better."

Adams smiles; shadows flicker across his face, outline his teeth in black. "And should he still choose to ignore us, he will regret it the morning after next."

***

**July 8, 1777**

"Canada!"

No response, so America hammers on the door harder. "Canada, open up!"

Still nothing—America glances over his shoulder, makes sure nobody's strolling through the woods or tearing through the trees or horseback or foot looking at him; pink light's starting to crawl across the sky, but it isn't quite enough to see by, not enough to distinguish a deer's shadow from a man's, even. He's fairly sure he shook off the last British soldier back at Lake Bomoseen but he thought he heard hooves thundering behind him after that, so he can't be sure. He picks up a rock, weighs it, hurls it at the topmost window. "Canada!"

Finally, Canada slides the shutters open and sticks his head out, blinks, squints. "America, what are you _doing_ here? The sun isn't up—"

"Just let me in, okay?"

"I'm not even supposed to be talking to you."

"You're the one who's on my land," America points out.

"It isn't your land yet." Canada crosses his arms, rests them on the windowsill. "And General Burgoyne told me to stay here, he wants to keep my men and me at Ticonderoga."

_Which is also mine_, America thinks. He grinds another rock under his shoe, the one without the holes starting to form in the soles. "You'd better not ruin it. Do you know how long I spent building up those fortifications?"

"It was England's before it was yours."

"And you were France's before you were England's," America says. "Owning something once doesn't mean you own it forever."

"I suppose Adams has been telling you all that," Canada says into his elbows.

"Jefferson. Canada, open the door, I rode nineteen miles to get here and my horse needs the rest."

"Nineteen—"

"Fraser caught up with us at Hubbardton. Hale and Francis held him off as long as they could, but then Riedesel came with reinforcements—we escaped, but they're going to harry us until we join up with Gates, and—" No, he can't tell Canada about the plan to fell the trees and block Burgoyne's path, and he can't tell Canada where the rendezvous with Gates is, and he can't tell Canada much at all, can he? "Canada, come on, I need to take care of a few things and then I'll be gone and you can tell Burgoyne you don't know where I went, because I won't tell you. All right?"

"You should leave before the sun's all the way up." Canada brushes his hair out of his eyes with the heel of his hand and disappears from the window; America listens, hears him thump down the stairs. The house at Skenesboro isn't the nicest one England owns, isn't even the nicest one he built on America's land. It's white clapboard and black shingles and very flat, even the pillars trimming the door don't stick out much and the overhang barely stretches out far enough to cover his head. America used to like the three windows jutting out from the roof: _there's one for Canada,_ England used to tell him, _and one for me, and one for you._ Now he wonders if he could throw a stone high enough to shatter them, scatter glass all over those clean English floors. He probably could, his arm's good enough.

The door unlatches, and Canada pokes his head out again. "America, this isn't a good idea—"

"Yes it is." America shoulders past him, heads into the hallway. "It's my land, I can do what I want on it."

"What if Burgoyne finds you here?"

He rounds on Canada. "Will he?"

Canada crosses his arms again. Has he gotten taller? "I'm not going to run to him and tell tales, if that's what you mean," he says. "But you shouldn't be here."

"Well I am. And if you help me, I'll be out of here faster. Promise."

Canada sighs. "What do you want _this_ time?"

"_This_ time?" America echoes, frowns. "What do you mean _this_ time?"

"You always want something," Canada says. He's wearing the house slippers America patterned for him, back when America was just learning how. "And once you get it, you want something else."

"Right now I want the tea set." America strides towards the kitchen—he remembers keeping it in there last, storing it on the top shelf of the cupboard once he could reach. "The one England gave me."

"What do you want with the tea set?"

"You'll see." America vanishes into the next room. "Watch me."

***

**December 15, 1773**

The dark's thick enough to have a taste: heavy, sour, like old velvet. It smothers America, muffles his ears, and he scrunches his blankets up under his chin and wriggles his toes so he knows they're still there, but even if he more or less knows where he is he can't find anything else. The candle next to his bed went out long ago; America can't see smoke curling from the wick or anything like that, can't see anything at all except a few scattered bits of light sneaking in through the slats in the shutters. The floorboards creak and he hums to himself so there's another sound, one that won't get swallowed by the darkness and turned into something else. The air chills—"Go away, ghost," he whispers, "I'm not scared," not even when the wind whistles past his window and rattles the shutters and he pushes himself against the headboard, draws his knees to his chest, the air isn't moving at all in here and America chokes on how stale it is—

The floorboards creak again. He gropes for his pillow, clamps it over his ears, curls up tighter. The morning's going to come soon. The morning's going to come soon and then Mr. Adams will take him to the Old South Meeting House and they'll get rid of that stupid tea somehow and America can send the stupid ghosts packing to England, he shouldn't have to let ghosts stay in Boston if he doesn't want them there. _Creak, creak_, the floorboards go, like they're trying to prove him wrong. The hinges squeal and America's head snaps towards the door but there's still no light coming in the room, just a shadow darker than the rest and moving towards him and America starts humming again, or is it whistling that drives away ghosts? He can't remember, and the shadow's closer now, crawling onto the bed…

Hot breath against his ear, hair tickling his cheek—"There are no ghosts here," and ghosts aren't solid and they don't breathe and they definitely don't sound like England, so America believes him.

"England—"

But England's finger presses his lips closed. He traces the shape of America's mouth with the tip of his thumb, it feels like, he still can't really see. A sliver of light breaks through the shutters and the silver pin in England's cravat shines and so do his cufflinks, but that's about all. His hand's cool, cool and smooth and so solid, and maybe that's why America shivers, lets his lips part and feels England's fingertips touch his teeth.

He's asleep, he has to be, there's no way England would march into Samuel Adams's house like this, Samuel Adams of all people, but England's other hand curls around the back of America's neck and draws him closer and that feels real. England's hand's so warm and America flushes when his knuckles knead the spur of bone at the base of his neck. The pin and cufflinks flash, draw closer, and so do the whites of England's teeth, and England catches America under the chin with his thumb, tilts his head up, takes his finger away from America's mouth—

—and puts _his_ mouth there instead, seals his lips over America's—

America says something like _mmph_ or maybe _nn_, England's mouth swallows the sound and England's tongue traces his teeth and pushes past them, thrusts in and swirls. He tastes like the sea, salty and wet and warm, and America finds England, clings to him in the darkness, fists his hands in England's waistcoat. England's knees settle around him, frame him, and England's drawing him back down to the bed, pulling the covers away and pulling his mouth away, too, and America doesn't whimper but he could—

England cups America's neck again before he drags that hand to the front, splays his fingers across America's throat and draws them lower, he's touching America everywhere and feathering kisses over his eyelids and forehead and nose and cheeks and America lets him; sound laces his breath now, sound that's just for the two of them. There are no ghosts here, there's not even Boston here, just England and America and the bed and England's hands and mouth and tongue map America's skin like he has the world written on it.

***

**July 8, 1777**

America doesn't slam the tea set into the earth like he wants to. The china chatters and scrapes, but nothing breaks. He unshoulders his musket, remembers the drills—_prime and load, handle cartridge_—and England's hands covering his before that, _a pinch of priming powder in the flashpan, close the frizzen, and pour the rest down the muzzle, there._

_Bet you didn't think I'd use it for this._

He sets the musket on the ground and picks up the teapot by its stupid fancy handle as Canada charges out of the house.

"America, what are you—America," he sees the gun and skids to a stop, "America, you _can't_…"

"You can't tell me what I can and can't do," America says, "and neither can he." And he draws his arm back and _hurls_ the stupid stupid teapot into the trees, doesn't see it land even though the sun's cresting over the tops of them and tinting the grass pink. He doesn't hear it shatter, so he must've gotten it pretty far. _Mind your strength, America._ He grins.

"America, England—England had that made for you—"

"Well I don't want it anymore." He fishes a cartridge out of the bag at his waist, rips it open with his teeth. "I don't even drink tea now."

"I'm going back inside," Canada says, and America drops his musket on the ground butt-end first, seizes Canada's shoulder.

"When I tell you to, throw the saucers into the air."

"America, let go, you're hurting me—"

He digs his fingers in tighter, squeezes; he's been wrestling with Canada for years, he knows where to hold him and how. "Do it, all right?"

"Why?" Canada drives his elbow into America's side, and America winces but doesn't let go, won't, can't. "Will you shoot _me_ if I don't?"

"No. But I swear I'll burn the house down."

Canada's eyes are more whites than anything else—"You wouldn't."

"Better than letting England have it." He grips Canada's arm harder. "Throw the saucers in the air when I tell you to, or I swear to God I'll do it. My men have done it to Loyalists before."

"You're horrible," Canada says, "you're being horrible and hateful."

"You wouldn't understand." He's going to need a new cartridge now, the powder's all over his hands; he wipes them on the grass, tears a fresh one open, a pinch of the powder goes in the flashpan and the rest goes down the muzzle and the cartridge goes in after. _Draw ramrod, ram down the cartridge,_ and he does, slams it in to the breech. _Present,_ he pulls the cock back, rests the butt on his shoulder. "Toss the first one."

The saucer's edged in gold, with blue curlicues unfurling towards the center. Canada hugs it close to his chest. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do."

"He'll be so angry—"

"Good," America says shortly. "Throw it."

Canada closes his eyes, flings the saucer into the air; it spins, sparkles in the rising sun—

_Fire._

America's a damn good shot. He has been ever since he learned how. The bullet strikes the saucer dead-on and it shatters, showers fragments of china onto the lawn. One lands near America's shoe, and he grinds it into the dirt. Doesn't look half so pretty now, does it?

"Now the next one," America says. "And throw it higher, will you? That was too easy."

"You can't keep doing this, America, you can't."

"I can fight for as long as I have to," he retorts.

"Stop," Canada says, "just—just stop, he'll be angry with you for a while—and it _is_ your fault so he should," he adds in a rush, "but if you stop he'll—"

"I don't want him to forgive me." America takes out the next cartridge, bites it open, spits the bit of paper out. _Prime, about, ram, present._ "I never wanted that. Throw it, Canada."

_Fire._

***

**December 16, 1773**

England's sliding America's shift up, exposing his hips—he's trembling but it can't be from the cold, he feels warm all over, so warm, dizzy from the slow swirl of England's fingertips and tongue and he curls his hands on England's shoulders, tightens his toes. England kisses the tautening skin on his stomach; "You're beautiful," he says, and his spit mixes with America's sweat. He kisses the tips of America's fingers next, each and every one, dips his tongue in the gaps between them and sucks on the web of skin. America stutters on a moan, feels England smile against his hand, a little smile, a smile just for America, America's the one he's doing this to and—"I want you," he whispers, "I want what you're becoming."

England's fingers slide between his ribs, squeeze, explore the spaces there. His tongue leaves a wet line down America's stomach, lower, lower but so _slow_ like he's trying to taste everything, drink as much of America down as he can. America strains, digs his heels into the mattress: _yes, more, everything._ And England hears him and kisses lower, he's breathing over America's curls and his tongue flicks out and swipes—

"Oh," America says, "oh," and it's the first thing he's actually said so far and England presses kisses down—down America's length like he was doing with his hands and England's hands slide down America's sides and grip his hips and—

—and he's lost in the wet heat of England's, of England's _mouth_—

England's lips draw tighter around him and his cheeks press in and his tongue swirls over the tip and the darkness crashes over America again but there's nothing in it now except heat, heat and stifled sound and England's hands holding him, holding him and caressing him and wanting, wanting _him_—

Someone pounds on the door, and America's eyes snap open; he has to throw his arm over his eyes to keep the light from blinding him.

"We're due at the meeting in two hours," Mr. Adams says. "I thought we ought to make ourselves presentable before then. This is an important day for you, after all."

America's heart is still hammering somewhere in his throat—"Right," he says, "you're right." The front of his shift is soaked through. He hopes the covers hide it.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," he says, "yes. It was really nice. Thank you."

"Anything for my country," Mr. Adams says, and disappears from the doorway.

America bunches the damp fabric in his fist, breathes harder. The sunlight's chased all the shadows from the room. There's no one else here. Just him.

  
\---

**Author's Note:**

> [The Boston Tea Party](http://www.boston-tea-party.org/in-depth.html) took place on December 16, 1773; when Governor Hutchinson refused to let the _Dartmouth_ depart Boston Harbor with its cargo of tea still on board, [Samuel Adams]() and the Sons of Liberty decided to divest the ship of its tea and protest the British government's attempt to grant the East India Company a monopoly over the product. They did this, of course, by dressing up like Indians, breaking the chests open, and dumping the tea into the harbor. A lot of people gathered around to watch. (The Bostonians were actually rather polite about it; they didn't damage anything except for the tea.) Of course, Britain was none too thrilled about this.
> 
> [British forces under General Burgoyne recaptured Fort Ticonderoga](http://www.britishbattles.com/battle-ticonderoga-1777.htm) on July 5, 1777, a year and a day after the country declared its independence. General St. Clair, the commander at the fort, received a lot of flack for his decision to abandon the fort to the British, and though he was exonerated, _his_ superior officer was replaced as commander of the Northern Department by General Gates. Burgoyne's push south was eventually ended at Saratoga.
> 
> America, Canada, and England's house is at [Whitehall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whitehall_\(village\),_New_York), called Skenesboro at the time of the fic. And yes, it's the same house England returns to in [And All That I Have Is Thine](http://mithrigil.livejournal.com/424886.html).


End file.
